


Toska

by Ultea



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:42:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultea/pseuds/Ultea
Summary: When Yuri Plisetsky himself sees he has been defeated by his good for nothing, overweight japanese counterpart, the teen can't do anything other than flee. Run in shame with his head bowed, back to the airport to catch the next flight to Russia. Viktor probably didn't even realize he had been swallowed into the turbulent sea of misery. ~“I’m so fucki-fucking sorry.”, Yuri hiccuped, apologising, apologising for acting like a brat, for thinking he was special to Viktor, for thinking Viktor cared. But most of all, Yuri was apologising for never having been good enough.





	1. Chloroform.

Yuri, the young Russian ice skater didn’t understand, as he trod back to the airport, the walk of shame. He had lost. Viktor, the only person that he actually had, had left him, left him for some Japanese nobody with a track record of failures, with such soft brown eyes, such soft strands of hair, the one with the ability to portray everything that he could _not_. 

The blond was so, he wasn’t even really angry, at least he realised he wasn’t angry as he walked to the nearest bus stop, frowning as he struggled to read Japanese; the teen, the teen simply felt empty. Empty, lost, abandoned, betrayed, inferior. Useless. If he couldn’t skate, if he couldn’t win, what was he really? Yuri Plisetsky was nothing. Nobody. Trash. The boy’s fist connected with the plastic screen that separated the little bus stop from the rest of the world, but even that, even when he channeled all of his anger into his fist, in a single act of violence like he would usually do, the collision of bone against solid barely made a sound. 

Yuri, why? Why? Why! The teen demanded mentally, again, again and again. Why, why was he never Viktor’s first choice? Why did Viktor have to run off all the way to Japan because of a fucking video uploaded to the internet with some flabby, overweight dude who had the gall to copy Viktor Nikiforov’s program? What the fuck happened to plagiarism? Why! _Why… why couldn’t Viktor have found inspiration in him?_ The voice in his mind finished dejectedly, sinking further into depression, slumping against the bench, biting his lip in sheer distress.

Fuck no. He was not going to cry.

Yuri refused to put himself in the same position he had found Viktor’s inspiration. How pathetic, to cry, alone, at a bus stop. No, he was stronger, he, he.. he wasn’t. Yuri really was not stronger than this. The Russian Punk had been reduced to the very person he had tried to get to quit the circuit. Crying, alone, as he covered his face with his hands. The tears, they just wouldn’t stop, as his back arched, audible sobs escaping and slipping through his trembling fingers as he cried, face contorted in such a way nobody under the age of forty should be forced to make. 

Viktor, his coach, the man he admired, the person who had inspired him, the one who kept him going, had tossed him aside, like the trash he obviously was. Viktor had been the only reason he pushed himself so much, to constantly surprise Viktor in the same way Viktor lived to surprise his audience. But, had he ever actually surprised him? Or had he stopped ages ago?

“I’m so fucki-fucking sorry.”, Yuri hiccuped, apologising, apologising for acting like a brat, for thinking he was special to Viktor, for thinking he cared. But most of all, Yuri was apologising for never being good enough. 

Suddenly, he heard a squeak of doors opening, as he convulsed behind his hands, only just seeing a lost bus driver looking at him without knowing what to do. Now, now everyone had seen him, seen him crying, at his weakest. At least, his name counterpart had had the privacy of the toilets to cry in. But fucking no, he couldn’t even get that. Sniffing sharply, he wiped his eyes, standing straight, trying to regain some form of composure as he stepped through the bus doors. 

He was going to get better. He was going to go back to Russia, he was going to win without that Bastard-Of-The-Man-He-Had-Started-To-Love’s help. Yes, he would show Viktor how his protégé was so inferior to him, Viktor would never forgive himself for choosing to remain in Japan instead of coming back to Russia. Staying with the overweight pig instead of remaining by _his_ side. For being so entranced in Eros he probably hadn’t even noticed he had disappeared. Yuri could have been fucking abducted for all Viktor could have known.

Even if the boy lost himself. 

Yuri didn’t care. Yuri didn’t care if he was reduced to a shell of himself. He would win. He would stand on the highest step in the podium. 

Yuri, Yuri would become such a skater, Viktor, he would show that asshole of a coach who the real Yuri was. Yes, the real Yuri was he, Yuri Plisetsky: The Russian Fairy.


	2. Going Under.

“Ah! Yakov!”, Viktor’s happy Russian voice spoke into his phone, his eyes never once leaving Yuuri who was situating himself on the ice to start his Eros. Two whole days had gone by since the big showdown between both the Japanese and Russian skaters. Yuuri’s performance had practically left him faint, his legs quaking, unable to rip his eyes from his newly found protégé. Was this how everyone else felt while they watched him skate? Without realising, Viktor had already closed his eyes, letting the memories flood back and wash over him. So soft and cleansing. He could almost see every onyx eyelash flicker as he winked at him. His little Katsudon had had the audacity to wink at him! For goodness sake, what was the world coming to? Viktor had loved it. Loved it so much a wolf whistle, that he hoped nobody had heard, escaped his parted lips.

Suddenly jerking his phone away from his ear, Viktor winced, listening to Yakov’s screams and shouts about Yuri's location. Wait, Yuuri? But, why would Yakov care about Yuuri? Yuuri was rig-

Finally, Viktor shocked himself awake and out of his little daydream with the pain of his front teeth biting his lower lip. What on earth did Yakov mean by where Yurio was? How was he supposed to know? The teen had left before the end of the competition and Yuko had later told him he had left, acknowledging his defeat before even giving Viktor the chance to judge. Yuuri Katsuki's newly debuted coach couldn’t help but have mixed feelings about it in all honesty; since when did Yuri Plisetsky back off quietly? He had warned the teen, urged him to go back home, that he wasn’t ready. Was it that hard for him to understand that Viktor was no condition to cater to what he needed?

It was good, wasn’t it? That Yurio had finally chosen to heed his words? It was just, well, the manner and moment he had heeded Viktor’s words nagged at the man, pulling at the strings of his subconscious. Had Yuuri’s magic on him been that obvious? Either way, Viktor had to concentrate. He could not allow his mind to wander, especially with the angry Russian barking into his ear.

“What do you mean Yurio never got on his flight?”, Viktor repeated, confused, staring blankly ahead, not really seeing anything. Yurio was not in St. Petersburg Hasetsu. So.. _where?_ “I have to go.” was all Viktor replied with, cutting Yakov off before his old coach could finish taking his breath and set off on another stampede of yells and curses at his lack of responsibility. Yes, Viktor was fully aware Yurio was only just sixteen, in fact, Yurio was not even sixteen yet. Fifteen, barely able to speak Japanese, clearly not on the flight back home. Just over forty-eight hours had gone by since he had last seen the kid.

Forty-eight long hours.

_Where was Yuri Plisetsky?_

For the first time in forever, Viktor cursed aloud, the bottom of his fist coming down on the side of the ice rink’s banister; the skidding of Yuuri’s skates against the ice came to a sudden stop. Viktor’s cold eyes suddenly yanked his way towards the exit, and then at Yuuri, weighing his options. Forty-eight hours was such a long time, there was no point in going out to search for the blonde. He, Viktor prayed it was just Yurio living up to his punk persona and had not actually, well, what was the worst that could happen to a foreign looking, loud-mouthed, obnoxious fifteen-year-old? Too many bad things. That was for sure.

“Practice is over.”, Viktor’s voice rivaled Russian winters, his eyes were colder than snow itself. Cold. Dangerous. Lethal. “Yurio’s missing.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing the blonde woke up to was a stinging sensation on his cheek, as his eyes blurred, unable to focus on anything, blinking groggily. Sorting through his thoughts, was hard, as if he were trying to wade his way through cement that had nearly dried and quicksand simultaneously. The instant his eyes opened, Yuri had snapped them closed quickly. It was too bright. Wherever he was, it was too bright. Forcing his eyes open again out of pure willpower, Yuri frowned, squinting against the light as he waited for his pupils to contract enough so burning would stop. As suddenly as it had started, the burning stopped, some form of shadow had covered his eyes, was that, was that a hand..?

Where..?

He wanted to speak, but his tongue felt like an abandoned piece of sandpaper, sitting so awkwardly. Yuri felt nauseous, as he groaned, unable to manage anything else, he couldn’t even feel his limbs, never mind move them, and if he had had his wits about him, he would have panicked. A lot.

“Told ya t’was too much.”, a voice spoke, yet Yuri couldn’t understand it, as his eyes darted lethargically around the room, thankful for the makeshift cap provided by the owner of whoever had placed his hands over his eyes, but even then, he couldn’t see whoever had spoken, he couldn’t register whatever language they were speaking with, it was just gibberish to his ears.

“Fuck off. You woulda done the same.”, a different tone growled back, or at least Yuri assumed he was growling and a different tone; what he was saying was still lost on the blonde, as if their voices were just jumbled hums and grunts mixed in. If he had to picture it, it would just be formless blobs of grey bouncing around somewhere.

Feeling a sudden urge to puke his guts up, Yuri’s body violently twisted to the right, moving on instinct, his mouth opening so quickly, his throat burnt as the bile came up. Just a blob of viscous yellowy green. For some reason, Yuri could see that as clear as day, or maybe he had imagined it as it’s acidic smell invaded his nostrils, causing his vision to blur , not once, but twice; eyes suddenly rolling back into his head, his lids finally closing anew. Yuri Plisetsky once again was left to the unmerciful clutches of his subconscious.

* * *

 

“You fucked up. Big time mate.” The man who had caught the boy as he rolled over to vomit spoke, not moving his eyes away from the unconscious blonde whose brow was covered in cold sweat, his golden bangs already starting to stick to his forehead. “How much chloroform did you dose the napkin up with? Enough to knock out an elephant? Fuck, Boss' gonna be so mad.” The same person groaned aloud, running a hand through his auburn locks, already trying to think several steps ahead if things went awry.

“Shuddup dude, it’ll work out, t’always does.”

With this sentence, the first man pivoted on his heel, and in one stride his hands were fisting the other man’s shirt as he snarled a “Shut the fuck up Ki.”, suddenly letting Ki’s shirt go as if it had burnt him, that or he was repulsed; probably the latter.

“Big fish want this little punk, they don’t take no battered goods.”, the same one continued, frustration was clearly etched in his tone, as he paced, every step he sent a worried glance at the renewed unconscious teen, his cheek had tinged a red blotchy hue, probably from the slaps he had administered to get him to wake up. “Clean up the fucking vomit Ki.”, was his last imperative before he took out his phone, stalking out of the room without a second glance backward.

 

* * *

_  
Viktor!_

_Please wait for me! I’m begging you!_

Yet the the silver haired man kept on walking, his gate unfaltering, each step he took he got smaller and smaller. No matter how fast Yuri ran, how much he screamed, how much he pleaded, how much he begged, Viktor would not wait for him. He just, why wasn’t he fucking waiting for him?

As if on cue, a flare lit up, slowly sinking down in the distance of the onyx sky, so sleek and rich, just like his replacement’s hair that had his hands entwined around Viktor’s ones. Yuri could barely make out what was happening, how he even knew it was Katsuki baffled the blonde, yet nonetheless, he just knew it was him. Blame it on his gut instinct, or the fact that in their short time together before the competition, the youngest skater had come to differentiate Katsuki’s silhouette, his footfalls and his nape at the back of his neck from anyone else’s. Creepy but true. That had simply been how much he had, no, did, how much he did envy the older competitor.

Katsuki had the emotion, the one he, the Russian Fairy, could not seem to harness, as well as the physique that enthralled Viktor. No matter how many jabs he took at the winner’s weight, deep, deep, deep down, Yuri was fully aware it was his own self-defense mechanism; and right now, in the ocean of obscurity, Yuri was fully aware. Yuri was see-through. All of his secrets, all of his insecurities bounced around the walls, enveloping around both Viktor and Katsuki, shoving his shortcomings into his face, rubbing it in with salt. Purposefully aiming for his open wounds.

It burnt, it burnt knowing Viktor’s shimmering blue eyes that he had once looked at him, those eyes bursting with hope, more beautiful than the ocean itself while he shook Viktor’s hand, their fate sealed forever with the promise of Yuri’s senior debut choreography. The very eyes that now only had room for one person: Yuuri Katsuki. Viktor’s new muse. The only one who had the ability to inspire the legendary figure skater. Another Yuri. Not him, but someone else.

The memories were slowly killing Yuri, slowly chipping away at his soul, atrophying his heart. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear Viktor’s voice ordering him back home. Telling him to go back home, that he had no place with Viktor nor in Japan. After all, there was already a Yuuri in Japan and Viktor only needed one Yuuri. Legs buckling under the realization of what had really gone down during the conversation forced the teen’s knees to buckle. Scrunching his eyes closed, Yuri didn’t want to see all those hideous words swirling around them; forming a physical barrier where Yuri would never reach past.

The one place Yuri would never reach, no matter how good he ever was, because Yuuri had everything one could not simply learn. Techniques could be learned, but the emotion was the sheer talent you were either born with or would never embrace. He, Yuri Plisetsky would never embrace it.

Turning away from the coach and his newly found protégé was agonizing. Yuri could no longer stand, his knees just refused to cooperate with him, it was the same feeling of numbness that one time he had over trained, over exerted himself before his body had been ready and his legs and just crumpled under him, just like now. Digging his hands into the darkness that was under him, Yuri heaved, using all of his upper body strength to drag himself away in the opposite direction. He had to get away. He had to get out. Or Viktor was going to kill him. Kill him inside. Kill him even more. Nine times over. Just like Troy. Groaning, Yuri dragged his dead lower body, sweat dripping down his forehead as Viktor’s words echoed around him. His simple order that Yuri had refused to acquiesce to:

_Go home Yuri._

Yuri was going under.

He wasn’t going to make it out alive.

Yuri wanted to beg.

To call back out to Viktor.

Beg him to reconsider.

To not… to not abandon him… to stop being so selfish… he, Yuri wouldn’t even mind it if he paid more than half of his ~~worshiping~~ attention to Katsuki… it, it was just, Viktor knew what it felt like to have no inspiration, was he really cruel enough to inflict the same fate on him? How, how could the only man Yuri had come to both admire and trust betray him like that? Viktor, Viktor had unknowingly become the first domino of many that would knowingly seal the boy's fate.

_You’re naïve garbage, Yuri. You know that._

_Always second best._

Gritting his jaw so forcefully his teeth grated together painfully, Yuri focused on breathing. Focusing on the physical burn in his arms as he crawled along in the dark, it was his only way of staying sane.

Plisetsky was going under; he really doubted he was going to make it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's chapter two due to procrastination and a soaring Yurio muse. 
> 
> Who are the two men? Have they even had an education with their speech mannerisms? Who is their boss and what do they plan to do with our little Plisetsky? I'll share my cheesecake if anyone can guess it or get close to the bullseye! 
> 
> Ultea


	3. Sixty-Four Hours.

**Missing**  
**Yuri Plisetsky (15) was last seen on his way to the airport from Hasetsu between 7 & 8 o’clock.**

**Yuri Plisetsky was last seen after the Onsen On Ice showdown on Saturday afternoon by Yuuko Nishigori. The sixteen-year-old figure skater had changed out of his competitive attire and into his trademark black hoodie and animal print shirt (purchased in Hasetsu upon his arrival).**

**Plisetsky has green eyes and blond hair that reaches his jaw. Prone to yelling and screaming obscenities that earned him the title of Russian Punk. If you have any information regarding Yuri Plisetsky, please report it to your local police bureau or call the National Japanese Missing Person hotline on 011-800-0843-5678.**

 

* * *

 

 

With a jolt, Yuuri folded the newspaper as he heard Viktor’s footsteps coming down the hallway. Shoving it under the table, the Japanese skater’s eyes turned to Viktor’s. They were wide, somewhat frightened, somewhat skittish, and somewhat guilty; yet none were for the reasons one would suppose at a first glance. No. Yuuri was frightened, frightened for Viktor. Sure, he couldn’t even describe how scared he was for Yurio, but he couldn’t do anything to help Yurio, on the other hand, Viktor was right here, under the same roof as him. So, the Japanese figure skater was forced to remind himself of this fact. He had to remind himself that no matter what, Viktor’s psychological welfare was his priority. As for the guilt, the guilt was something overwhelming. It washed over him in constant waves of what if’s. What if they had made the boy, forced him, to stay, no matter the outcome of the competition. What if Mari or his mother had gone, specifically drove him to the airport, just like Minako-sensei had always picked him up and dropped him off.

As Viktor sat down opposite him on the table, Yuuri couldn’t help but scrutinize his coach’s face. The man was pale, even paler than he usually was (being Russian and all), a sickly pale, only making the rings under his eyes even more prominent.

It was currently Tuesday morning; a rough sixty-four hours had gone by since Yurio had gone missing. Sixty-four hours was a long time, in fact, Yuuri had watched that American movie while he had been in Detroit with Phichit, he couldn’t remember the name, but right now, under these circumstances, he could recall everything that happened so clearly. The girl, the man’s daughter, had disappeared with a friend in a similar manner Yurio had. One second she was there, the next she had been shipped off under clear duress to work in the sex industry. Her friend was found first by the girl’s father. She might as well have been dead with how drugged up they had left her. As for the daughter, well, he doubted Yurio would be saved in a similar manner, for a range of reasons, but mostly, mostly because it was only now that he realized how unachievable the basis of that movie actually was. Like beauty standards really. Even if Viktor was the God on ice, once he stepped off it, he was just a normal human with an uncanny ability to seem godlike at everything he did. But he was not a god. In fact, Yuuri couldn’t help but somehow know that even a top-notch CIA agent like the hero in that movie would have a considerably hard time pulling that movie off in real life without the re-takes, cut scenes rehearsed lines and stunt actors.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, an unwanted chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless. In a split second, Viktor’s dulled, but still just as piercing blue eyes were on him, weighing him, as if trying to figure out how he had the ability (or was it audacity?), to laugh in such a situation. Knowing this, insinuating Viktor’s chain of thought, Yuuri got flustered almost instantly as he stuttered, getting his words jumbled up in an attempt to get the reason for the chuckle out in the open.

“I fail to see what’s so funny about the whole situation?” Viktor asked, his voice dangerously low, his Japanese accent thicker than usual. It cut Yuuri.

“I’m sorry! I, I, it’s just,”, Yuuri ripped his eyes away, unable to hold his coach’s gaze for a second longer. Were these the eyes Yurio grew up with? Cold? Razor sharp? Downright scary?, as he continued speaking, his hands fidgeting together nervously on his lap, he failed to see how Viktor took a deep breath, a genuine look of apology washing over the older skater’s face. “It’s just, I was picturing you playing the father role in that movie where the girl is kidnapped in Paris along with her friend by the guy they shared a taxi with.” Yuuri finally finished his spiel; still not looking back at Viktor until he heard a scoff.

Viktor had laughed.

Yuuri couldn’t help but let a small smile of relief form on his face. Viktor, going a couple of hours without seeing a glimpse of pearly white would worry anybody. The man was always laughing, smiling, with that goofy grin where his lips seem to form a heart. Yes, the sound Yuuri had just heard was probably sweeter than music from heaven itself.

With a soft sigh, Yuuri looked to his right, his gaze wandering somewhere lost in the horizon. Yes, Viktor had just rekindled the flame that had been blown out like a meek candle in a typhoon. It just, reading that article in the newspaper had seemed to make it official. Yurio was gone. Kidnapped. Probably scared and hurt. Maybe dead. Sighing again, Yuuri blinked, coming back to earth as he turned away from the window. Making sure Viktor didn’t do anything stupid was his responsibility.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of a similar, yet much fancier and expensive pane of glass stood a man who was scowling, scowling at nothing. Staring ahead, he was almost like a statue, his chest barely rising as he inhaled and exhaled his life source. The view was spectacular. Green foliage in the shape cypresses, green, perfectly manicured lawns, a small lake with a little bridge leading to a small island of luscious flowers. The man’s view was perfect, out of a fairy tale level gorgeous.

Unnatural. Almost.

A ringtone penetrated the unnerving peacefulness. Turning around, the man picked his cell phone off the table where the vibrations caused his pencils to quiver softly, as he swiped his thumb across the sleekness of the screen, he brought it to his ear. A single imperative word escaped his lips:

“Report.”

“Oh, howdy boss, I, I uhh,” the voice on the other end stopped for a second, obviously caught off guard he had been answered so quickly, not allowing them time to rehearse whatever they had hoped to do while they waited for it to connect. “Boss, the kid ain’t waking.”, he confessed, his voice barely audible on the other side, yet the ‘boss’ heard it firm and clear.

“Oh?” His voice was silky, softer than velvet.

“Ye-, yeah. Well, he woke up ‘bout an hour ago, yet he puked his guts up and blacked out again. Judging by my experience with my partner’s fuck ups, he’s cleared the chloroform outta his system. Should be up’n running in the next twelve hours.” The man speaking suddenly stopped, somewhat abruptly as he gasped for breath, obviously speaking quicker than needed, needing to get his story out along with the meager reassurances that his shipment was in perfect conditions. Undamaged.

Without wasting a single breath on the rat, the man hung up, chucking his phone back to the table, as he turned back to the view, gazing out and eyes lazily wandering on his little workers that pruned and cared for his botanical kingdom. Owning your own island in Greece was expensive, but hey, cash was all you needed in life to get away with anything.

“Sir? Would you rather I return when you are not inconvenienced?”, a pure Australian accent resonated off the walls, the sound of his right hand brought the ray of light that he had been hoping for on such a horrible day the man was going through. Yes, Jackson knew exactly how and when to cheer his 'Sir' up.

“Now is fine.”, the man waved him off, turning around, he only just caught the wisps of his worker’s cloak fluttering out of the door, only to return a second later, yet this time followed by a lanky, blue-eyed, blonde-haired boy that looked so skittish and out of place in his study. It was almost a mix of painful and amusing to watch how the boy's eyes jumped around, his jaw clenched so hard the 'Boss' could almost hear his teeth grating together.

With a bow, Jackson left the room again, not even sparing a glance for the poor boy that stood jittering in the center of the room, clearly uncomfortable, obviously fresh, the man noted, tilting his head to the side. His eyes fluttered closed for a second as he inhaled. It, it was almost like his Yuri. Almost. If he focused enough, he swore it was actually hislittle skater in the room. If he focused more, he could see the trembles of excitement coursing through his baby’s body. A perfectly nimble body that could even leave a prima ballerina in ridicule with her own clumsiness and posture compared to his baby cub.

Yet the second he opened his eyes, the little dream shattered.

Completely.

This boy looked nothing like his baby did, at all. In fact, the man was appalled that he had actually attempted to use this rat as a replacement for his baby. The man was fuming, face contorting in rage, jeering and leering at the poor boy. The sound of water made him focus even harder on the poor blonde in front of him, yes, there had been no trickle of water before the rat had been placed in here. Disgust marred the man’s face, as he stared at the poor Yuri-Plisetsky-look-alike that had urinated all over itself and stained the expensive carpet.

In the man’s eyes, this thirteen-year-old was no longer a human being. Or, no, he was not even the rat he had been before. Something much, much more unworthy of life.

Pathetic. Miserable. Weak.

His baby would never degrade himself in such a way. His Yuri was so much more. So, how was he supposed to use this ugly doll to clench his raging thirst that had spiked at the thought of his baby soon being in his rightful place? Under his own roof with him catering to his every need? How did Jackson expect him to control himself enough with this excuse of a mongrel that he had delivered? Reaching out in a single movement, his iron-like grasp clenched around the blonde’s jaw, forcing it’s head up at an awkward angle.

As the blonde, dirty, bangs fell backward, revealing that ugly unblemished face, the sneer of disgust returned full throttle. Finger nails gripped his jaw so tightly, his nails dug into the boy's mouth, splotches of red slowly started to drip down its neck, only enraging the man further. The man carried on tilting the boy’s head backward, so much it was nearly at a ninety-degree angle, forcing him to bend his quivering knees as he fell to the ground in his own pool of wetness from earlier. The very texture of the cooling urine would have made any normal person cringe and shy away, yet, the boy was too far gone, too terrorized to notice anything other than the man before him; the man with silver hair that was going to be the end of him.

'Terror' was the understatement of the century for the victim.

On contrary to what the blonde probably hoped, the subservient meekness and strangled chokes that escaped his pathetic hole for a mouth only angered the man further. One swift, powerful motion of his leg and his heel connected with the boy’s clavicle, brutally sending his head against the ground with a sick sounding crack; twisting his heel, the silver-haired man pushing all of his weight onto the fragile joint. Face only further contorting in a messed up glee when he heard a crunch, feeling the sound shimmer under his expensive black leather shoes. Shifting his weight, the man looks down at the blonde’s flaccid member, tiny, pathetic, hideous. This piece of vermin did not deserve to live any longer.

Face even further contorted into disgust, if that was even possible, he crouched down, his hands caressing the sniveling rat’s face, almost comfortingly as the tips of his fingers slowly fluttered down the boy’s jawline. Reprieve? As if. Leaning all of his weight into his hands, the hooked his thumbs just on top of the boy’s, well, where his Adam’s Apple would have been had the waste of space had been allowed a couple more years to develop itself.

The rat was even pathetic dying. The boy’s back arched, his hands clawing so weakly at his own wrists, failing to even annoy him to the extent a fly would, only for all movement to cease as soon as the fight to live had began. Pathetic shrivel of a human being. He really would have to talk to his manservant. The man would not allow him to employ such pathetic replicas of his Yuri. Nevermind send them in as his baby's replacement.

His beloved Yuri.

Making his way back to his mahogany desk, the silver-haired man sat down, strangely and worryingly unperturbed by the blonde corpse, as if he had just witnessed a child feeding a stray cat. Allowing himself to fall into the leather chair with a soft thud, the man beeped a button under his desk, once, twice, thrice. Five minutes later, his manservant had silently entered his office, picking up the corpse like a bag of groceries, bowing. About to leave just as silently as he had arrived, however Jackson stopped, hovering in the doorway before he finally spoke.

“You really can’t go on like this. This is the third this week.” The right hand spoke, firmly, as he hoisted the limp body to get a better grip and shift the dead weight to a more proactive position.

“My Yuri will be here soon enough.” Was the only offhand reply the Aussie got. “Soon I won’t need them. At the end of the day, they’re just cheap replicas.” The man’s voice was cool and seemingly calculated, yet the way his hands intertwined and disentangled themselves, again and again, gave away the man’s heightened impatience for his shipment to arrive. Turning around in his chair and went back to facing out of his window, admiring his little kingdom he had ordered to be created.

“As you wish.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Other than the solid taps of leather shoes against marble floor that echoed and bounced from wall to wall as if playing a game of tag, the hallway was completely silent. Each time Jackson walked the same route. His boss joked about him functioning like clockwork, yet in all honesty, it was true. As an ex-military man, punctuality and timekeeping were the difference between a successful operation and a failure resulting in many thousands of lives being snuffed out in a second, oh, the irony. Failure had never been an option for the brunette, and it wasn’t about to start being a viability.

The rhythm of his footsteps faltered in front of the grand glass pane that covered that side of the house, stretching from the bottom floor all the way to his boss’ office on the third and top floor. Jackson stopped at the same place every time as he also turned towards the view. Allowing his eyes to wander, a small smile tugged at his rugged lips, the weight of the dead corpse forgotten as it dangled over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Yes, his boss was ingenious. Truly. Oh, the man enjoyed playing god, he really was like a teenager in that sense. Just, unlike teenagers, his boss didn’t have to play boring games like, well, what was it called these days? Mine? Mind Craft? Frowning softly at the fact he couldn’t remember, Jackson moved on. No, his boss didn’t have to use whatever the game was called or Lego. 

No.

He could play the real life version. After all, he had pretty much just bought an island in the middle of the sea of Crete for some kid he had taken a fancy to some time ago. Privacy was needed in this line of work, or really, the lifestyle his boss had chosen. Just like Jackson had been able to play the real life version of war; yes, the real-life versions were always so much more entertaining.

Jackson’s gaze wandered, admiring his boss’ choice. Or, better said, his ability in procuring his workers. Or dolls. Yes, that word suited them better. How the man was able to procure to many look-alikes was beyond him, yet who was Jackson to question his boss’ abilities? Mentally counting the blonde blobs that were working on pruning his silver-haired boss' garden, Jackson nodded to himself, content that none of them seemed to be slacking off nor missing. After all, all sense of independence and being their own person bullshit had been whipped out of them by himself. Breaking privates down and re-building them had been his specialty. Ripping their ideals apart and reconstructing them to benefit the Australian military was one of the highest forms of pleasure any man could dream of achieving.

Starting to walk again in direction of the fires, Jackson felt his phone vibrate, once, twice and fall silent. That vibration pattern, in particular, had been assigned to his boss; without further ado, the man shifted the dead weight draped over his shoulder and reached for his phone. The text was simple and to the point:

Picking up the package. Book the next flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! How did you like the little taster? Juicy enough? Or do you crave more? Let me know, my Yurio muse is sky-high, and will probably remain that way for who knows how long (probably two eternities). Yes, I am currently YoI trash and proud.
> 
> Anyways, feel free to hit me up with all and any form of criticism, I'm always down to improve and have a second, or third, or fourth, even fifth opinion at my disposal. What I'm trying to say is that I love criticism nearly as much as I adore cheesecake. The more constructive it is, the closer it comes to skating on the same ice as Cheesecake, totally not hinting that I'm starved and want to eat cheesecake or anything... totally.. totally not.. I swear.
> 
> Ult.

**Author's Note:**

> Well! How did you like the little taster? Juicy enough? Or do you crave more? Let me know, my Yurio muse is sky-high, and will probably remain that way for who knows how long (probably two eternities). Yes, I am currently YoI trash and proud.
> 
> Anyways, feel free to hit me up with all and any form of criticism, I'm always down to improve and have a second, or third, or fourth, even fifth opinion at my disposal. What I'm trying to say is that I love criticism nearly as much as I adore cheesecake. The more constructive it is, the closer it comes to skating on the same ice as Cheesecake, totally not hinting that I'm starved and want to eat cheesecake or anything... totally.. totally not.. I swear. 
> 
> Ult.


End file.
